


What is Has to Be

by Seth



Category: Fable (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seth/pseuds/Seth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short drabble in which Reaver reflects on his early past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What is Has to Be

Sometimes the noise just becomes too much to bear. The unending prattle. The way their eyes follow me. The idolatry and the reverence are worth everything I’ve given up for them. I won’t deny that. I would never take back even the smallest action of my past. Every harsh word, every impulsive gunshot, every lesser person who had to be put down to make way for my rise to power. All of them have served to make me what I am today, and everyone would agree that what I am is the very pinnacle of what mankind strives to become. I am what I have to be; excellence.

Still I can hardly stand for it at times. On rare occasion I opt to sleep alone, just to escape the loneliness of companionship. It is unfortunate that I choose to put myself in this situation.

The nightmare never ends, never changes. My past haunts me in the silence of the night, speaking just at the edge of my senses, like a breath of wind through the willows of wraithmarsh. I crave their idle gossip, their deceitful affection, the blind pleasure as the falsehearted sycophants cast off their shroud of sophistication as the night comes to a close and revel in the animal comforts of the flesh. They have become essential to me, not as individuals; no, I can do away with any of them without a second thought, but as an affirmation of all I have accomplished. They serve their purpose, and that is enough.  
Still in the silence the nightmare threatens. I close my eyes as I lie in bed and the images come unbidden. Images of my old life, of what was and of what could have been. What damned well should have been.

I remember the sounds of children playing in the streets, and the ephemeral beauty of her laughter at the idea of a couple such as us, so young and in love with life, settling down and starting a family. I confided in her, I would love nothing more than a daughter with her dazzling eyes and her passion for the simple joy of living and when she smiled I had never in the whole of my existence been so captivated by a woman’s brilliance. I felt I should laugh or cry with the joy I felt then, and that night when we first made love amongst the shadows of the oak grove I knew I would give to this woman all I was and would ever be. How wrong I was. Such small moments, hardly worth remembering, but how they eat away at one’s soul over the centuries… I cannot prevent it, so I’ve come to accept it.

My torturous mind conjures the image of her grave and the bitter sweet smile fades from my face. My throat feels tight, my lips are dry and I firmly remind myself that a grown man has no business weeping into his pillow over events long past… but that grave is the worst image of them all by far. The small cairn in the marshes. It took two years for me to accept what had happened. What I had done. The man she had loved was gone, nothing but a heartless caricature. Reaver, I called myself. Respected, feared, an infamous harbinger of death who took what he wanted with no regard or remorse. It was fitting really.  
What would she have thought? When the man who returned to the ruins of oakvale and erected that insignificant memorial to her memory was not the man she had loved, the man she had planned to wed, whose child she was carrying when her soul was torn from her as one more faceless tribute to the council? When the man who had destroyed her along with everything she had ever known humbly assembled that trivial monument and fell to his knees to cry openly for her memory until he felt physically ill with shame and guilt? Would she have forgiven me? Would she have despised me? Egocentric and self-possessed as I may have been, I realize I deserved no less than abhorrence.

I was… scared, surely that could be forgiven. She had knew me like no one ever could. Her understanding of my lust for simply being and crippling fear of nonexistence was certainly as much explanation as she needed for my actions. She had been flawless, but even in her perfection she surely could not forgive such a self-seeking and callous man…

I sob softly and hear shuffling outside the room. Barry. He knows better than to disturb me but I’m not proud of this grief by any means, and knowing my servant is aware of my mourning makes me uneasy. I trust my servant to know what I need of him. The man adores me, and it isn’t the mindless fawning of those I count amongst my inner circle, but true admiration.

I’ve no doubt he would be quite pleased to offer me comfort, but appearances must be maintained or everything I’ve done will be for nothing. When I get my emotions under control I may go to him for more… corporeal comfort; I mistreat him, I use him as I see fit, and he proves his devotion by permitting it without question. It is what it has to be and it’s enough.

Still I struggle to end the slow shedding of tears from my eyes. I know I’m slipping when I feel arms around me. It happens increasingly often as the date of the sacrifice approaches. I know my sanity is in question, but it doesn’t keep me from imagining that it’s her with me, soothing and peaceful. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, and though I hear my breath shudder I feel calm and I know the tears have stopped. It isn’t real. It is what it has to be…

**Author's Note:**

> That was probably terrible and out of character. I apologize. Feel free to point out errors in spelling and grammar as I don't have a beta. Thanks for reading.


End file.
